


like brick, like stone

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: While Q isn’t one to mistake mere carefulness for something like kindness, he's sure that Bond is doing a fair job of toeing the line between the two. Had Bond volunteered himself for this as well? Or did someone along the chain of command decide that the logistics would sort itself out organically amongst all available agents and just leave the house keys out?Either way, Q is glad. He’ll take whatever small amount of mindfulness that Six can spare, and for someone who has such a great capacity for violence, Bond can sometimes be so very capable of great kindness, too. The hands that are carefully removing Q’s favourite books from their box, the same hands that helped packed them in there – Q has seen them raw and bloodied, the skin scraped right off the knuckles and flesh cut down to the bone sometimes.And yet.And yet, here they are.(A love story about people and places, in parts.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/gifts).
  * Inspired by [essential](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291455) by [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/pseuds/beili). 



> For the ever amazing, ever talented, and ever patient beili <3 Your art is always such an inspiration! I can only hope that something like this does your vision a small amount of justice.
> 
> Also, a very big thank you to Lisa for always being such a wonderful and thorough beta! This fic would be a lot more incoherent than it currently is, if not for her interventions.

There’s something strange, about walking into a place you know you’ll never return to.  
  
Q has lived here for years. Scrimped, saved, and haggled until he could finally, finally say that he was almost on the brink of owning every last square inch of this tired little flat in Brixton, with its patch of shared garden and squeaky floorboards, its broad windows and radiator in the living room that hums a little when it rains.  
  
It’s not impressive by any stretch of the word, but it would have been _his_ , and that’s what counts, isn’t it? Not the slightly concerning watermarks on the ceiling or the occasional thump-thump of old Sal upstairs moving around with her walker at odd hours in the night, but the fact that he knows and loves every scuff-mark and every scratch, every single stain on the aged wood floors.  
  
_Lived-in_ , someone less acquainted with the burden of mortgages on a government salary might have called it after a brief look-around, but Q just thinks of the term with a quiet sense of pride.  
  
_Lived-in_.  
  
What are homes meant for, after all, if not for living? Every mundane moment of Q’s life feels like it's been etched into the very foundations of the flat itself, and Q wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Bond is respectful, at least. God knows he’s lived in places that would have put the mere idea of Q’s flat to shame, but if anything, Bond looks as if he might even be...charmed by it, even if Q is not sure if that’s the most accurate way to describe the way Bond is seemingly trying to catalogue every nook and cranny of this place. Every corner demands his attention, and every window needs peering out of, this thorough inspection bordering on endearing if not for the fact that Q knows they'll never set foot in here again.  
  
There's not much of a point showing Bond around then in that case, and yet, some part of Q still wants to introduce Bond to each room and every corner. Say his own hellos and goodbyes all in one go, too, while also apologising under his breath to these creaking walls for not bringing Bond home any earlier. He might have grown to like it here, perhaps. And in some other life, maybe even come to love it as much as Q does.  
  
In the end, they drift slowly from room to room, Q foregoing any commentary to just lead Bond quietly over each new threshold. There will come a day when he'll be able to tell Bond about how the chair by the window in the study  has the best light in summertime, or how he had fretted for days over the scratch a new bookcase had left in the wooden floors, but for now, this will do. From entryway to living room and living room to kitchen. Study, after that. Bedroom. Bathroom. Doubling back to stand for a spell on Q’s cramped excuse for a balcony, Q giving a wave towards where double-oh three must be watching them from her scope in the empty flat across the street.   
  
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” Bond had said to him the night before, Q curled towards him in the dark. He's flung one arm over the pale expanse of Q’s back and Q remembers it now as a warm weight, fingers rubbing comforting circles into his skin. “If you want me there, I can be.”  
  
"I know," Q had murmured in reply. Left the  _I always want you there, you know that, you know all of that by now_ unsaid as usual.  
  
Once upon a time, when this at first strange, now inexplicably comfortable thing between them was nothing more than a brave little idea, Q would have resented the very suggestion of Bond even offering his help.  
  
Who did Bond think he was?  
  
Who did he think _Q_ was?  
  
These days, Q likes to think he knows the better answers to such questions, and even if he can't say them aloud yet, -  
  
(Bond has a claimed a seat on the arm of Q's sofa, balancing a sheet of adhesive labels on his thigh to write on them in a slow, steady script:  **books, clothes, study, kitchen** _._ )  
  
– at least he's not alone.  
  
“Do you want to start with the books first?”  
  
Q holds a box out for Bond to stick a label on it, and together, they start packing Q’s life away.

 

* * *

 

In the three days and seventeen hours since Six sent one of their many nameless agents to extract Q from his own flat, Q’s had more than enough time to cycle through most of the usual phases of grief. There'd been the stone-cold denial to a quiet sort of anger, first, before he decided to bypass the overrated drivel about bargaining to settle on weary acceptance instead.  
  
And depression?  
  
Well. About that. Q knows he must have offered a brief nod of acknowledgement at it in midst of this whole whirlwind process, but whether or not that's enough to exorcise it from his system still remains to be seen. Even now, standing in the midst of boxes half-filled with everything he’s ever known, he can just about begin to feel a slight, steady pressure starting to build from behind his ribs, and Q can't help but wish that he’d afforded it the attention it deserved.  
  
Never mind, though. That'll just be another bridge to cross if he ever finds the time to get to it. When he does cross it.  
  
Still standing no more than fifteen, sixteen paces from it, Q inexplicably finds himself already missing the way the traffic sounds from his kitchen window. Catches himself thinking fondly, too, and often, of the alder tree outside his bedroom window and how he’s grown used to finding its leaves on his windowsill, like little offerings of twig and colour in the mornings.  
  
In the grand scheme of things, loss feels like too large of a word to call the feeling that’s started to take hold in his chest. This is mere brick and stone, just an imagined idea of space and place, so surely it deserves something less than that.  _Surely._  
  
And yet, with each new room they pack away, it’s as if there’s a hollowness that just grows and grows in return, something nameless being pulled out of Q each time they fill a new box.  
  
The sight of shelves being emptied of their books shouldn’t feel like sadness.  
  
The sound of echoes growing louder with every cupboard left bare shouldn’t make Q want to shut every door and draw every curtain, promise the house that he’s not actually going to leave.  
  
“Q?” It’s Bond, looking in from the doorway because Q’s been standing here with a boxful of odds and ends at his feet for a good two minutes now. “Is everything alright?”  
  
The back of Q’s neck stings a little when he bends over to pick the box up and he thinks he can feel fresh blood starting to soak through the bandage there. Bond is going to bully him into changing it soon if he notices.  
  
“All good,” Q says with false cheer as he hefts the box in his arms. Outside, a stray gust of wind is making the alder tap its branches against the bedroom window, the gentle, familiar sound that makes Q think it might be saying goodbye. “Just this last box and then we can leave.”

 

* * *

 

They leave, as Six determines it, for somewhere a good hour away from London, Bond merging the agency-issued car in so effortlessly with the rest of the weekday drivers on the M1, Q could almost pretend that they're out for an impromptu drive rather than a semi-covert mission.   
  
_Operation Padlock_ , Moneypenny had called this with her characteristic brand of good humour in the face of something profoundly terrifying. _You’ll be fine, Q. Safe as houses, that's what they say._  
  
He will be. He already is.  
  
It could almost be surreal if Q hadn't already come to terms with the absurdity that is his life with Six. How do the agents do it, he wonders? How is this, all this running and hiding and running again, always looking over your shoulder and muscles tensed to dodge the next bullet – how is this even close to any approximation of what life should be like? Even with the worst of it behind him, there's still some leftover residue of nervous energy that keeps Q shifting every now and then in his seat. Bond, in comparison, is driving one-handed, the other resting comfortably on the gear stick as if it's just an every-day thing to help sequester someone out in the country.  
  
Except it is for him, isn't it?  
  
Q turns ever so slightly to look at Bond.  
  
_Safe as houses_ , Moneypenny had said, even though Q had very nearly been killed in his own. The strangeness of the phrase thrums through him as they pull further and further away from London, and with each new mile they leave behind them, Q is less convinced that it's the right phrase for him. Safe as agents, maybe. That might work better.  
  
"Care to share what you're thinking so loudly about over there?"  
  
Bond, casting him a curious look before he eases them onto the A421.   
  
_You_ , Q doesn't say, though he does shake his head in mild deflection. On the radio, the announcer with the week's weather has given way to something slow and easy, the kind of music that makes Q want to lean back further into his seat and close his eyes, maybe even reach his hand over to place on Bond’s.  
  
(A snap decision: Bond's knuckles are sun-warmed under Q's palm and the sound that Bond makes is amused, though not displeased at all. Q curls his fingers gently in return. Thinks,  _Safe as agents does sound about right._ )

 

* * *

 

While Q isn’t one to mistake mere carefulness for something like kindness, he's sure that Bond is doing a fair job of toeing the line between the two. Had Bond volunteered himself for this as well? Or did someone along the chain of command decide that the logistics would sort itself out organically amongst all available agents and just leave the house keys out?  
  
Either way, Q is glad. He’ll take whatever small amount of mindfulness that Six can spare, and for someone who has such a great capacity for violence, Bond can sometimes be so very capable of great kindness, too. The hands that are carefully removing Q’s favourite books from their box, the same hands that helped packed them in there – Q has seen them raw and bloodied, the skin scraped right off the knuckles and flesh cut down to the bone sometimes.  
  
And yet.  
  
And yet, here they are.  
  
“You can borrow it, you know,” Q says offhandedly as he sits down next to Bond. There’s a faint sheen of wood-dust on the carpet next to the shelf, and just like every other piece of furniture in this place, the shelf looks like it’s just been hurriedly assembled the hour before. “It’s a good one, if a bit of a struggle to get through at parts. Also, bleak.” A pause as he reconsiders, before adding: “More than a little bleak, actually.”  
  
Bond is cradling Q’s copy of _The Three Body Problem_ thoughtfully, having stolen a brief look at its inside flap before sliding it onto the low shelf with Q’s few other books he’d been permitted to bring along.  
  
“If that’s your version of a sales pitch...” he starts.  
  
“It’s an honest review!”  
  
“Which has only led me to believe you’re better off telling the story to me, rather than me reading it.”  
  
He’s smiling, though, as he says this, and Q, damn his heart, can’t help but smile (and sigh) in return.

 

* * *

 

It’s quick work, unpacking. Everything considered, Q would have preferred to live out of the two boxes and one suitcase he’s been told to bring – all the better to maintain the illusion of this being temporary, if you will – but there’s nothing practical about rummaging around the bottom of a box for that one notebook, or that one stray sock. So:  
  
A mug sitting by the sink, slightly chipped but familiar in its faded blue varnish.  
  
A grab-bag of clothes hanging in the cramped, free-standing closet in the bedroom, the one that’s already starting to lilt a little to the right.  
  
Two coats by the door, pockets still holding stray receipts for take-away coffees and god knows what else.  
  
On the bookshelf, a meagre collection. One half-read copy of _Metro 2033_ and _Dune_ , well-thumbed. Some Douglas Adams for comfort and Zwillinger’s _Standard Mathematical Tables and Formulae_ for work, though Q has to wonder how much work he’ll manage to do out here.  
  
And on the sofa, feet already up on the coffee-table as he waits – Bond.  
  
Which means for today, there’ll be no work done at all.

 

* * *

 

If asked, later, whose grand idea it had been to christen the bed, Q will find that he honestly can’t remember. Bond, maybe, with typical cheek. Or maybe Q himself, suddenly eager to force some semblance of individuality and ownership into a place that could have waltzed off an IKEA catalogue, neat Scandinavian lines intact and everything.  
  
The bed frame is sturdy, though, and the mattress just firm enough, soft sheets still smelling faintly of the detergent they had just been washed in, so Q can’t complain too much.  
  
“You’re not expecting me to drive all the way back to London tonight, are you?” Bond had asked without even bothering to feign innocence.  
  
“How romantic,” had been Q’s dry reply to that. And then, “Take your clothes off.”  
  
He’s always liked this view of Bond in the near-dark, when Bond sits back on his haunches to undress with his knees on either side of Q’s thighs. It’s the shirt that goes first, one hand working steadily to undo button after button while the other is splayed almost protectively on the soft, warm plane of Q’s stomach. The trousers come next after that, Q usually losing any kind of patience once the belt comes off and already starting to palm the hard outline of Bond’s cock through the fabric, his hands having to eventually settle with muted dissatisfaction on Bond’s hips to let Bond – slowly, far too slowly, the damned tease – draw the zip down.  
  
Tonight is no different. With his trousers pulled down to mid-thigh, Bond has his eyes closed and head bowed forward as Q touches him, hand wrapped loosely around the shaft first and then tightening just a fraction as he moves upwards, grip twisting so that his palm can rub teasingly against the head.  
  
“You always get hard so fast,” Q murmurs. His hand has stilled, thumb circling the slit of Bond’s cock to press lightly into it every now and then. “I would have liked to feel you get hard in my hand, you know.”  
  
In return, Bond can only groan, a low, desperate sound that makes Q’s own balls tighten even more.  
  
“Rich, coming from someone who’s had his hand on my cock for the past ten minutes.”  
  
“Five, Bond. Just five. Ten would be a bit of an overkill, don’t you think?” Q can already feel his prick twitch at the mere thought of what he wants to say next, his hand stroking down Bond’s shaft one more time in anticipation of it. “Even more so when you haven’t even let me put my mouth on you yet.”  
  
It gets him the reaction he’s been waiting for, an actual shudder running through Bond’s body.  
  
“Is that what you want?” A rhetorical question at this stage, since Q has started moving further up against the headboard and Bond is shifting with him, hand already guiding his prick towards Q’s lips. “My cock in your mouth?”  
  
“Please,” whispers Q and he tastes it then, the clean, salt-bitter taste of pre-cum as he swallows and the warm pressure of Bond’s cock resting on his tongue, sliding in deeper still until Q has to remember to breathe through his nose. There’s the overwhelming desire to close his eyes as he does this, but Q wants to watch, too. See the way Bond’s chest hitches with every half-gasp that Q drags out of him. Look up at Bond bent over him with one arm braced against the headboard as he feeds Q inch after inch of his cock.  
  
“Good boy,” he hears Bond breathe from above and Q has to touch himself, hand fumbling in the dark with buttons and zips until he can finally pull shamelessly at his own prick. He’s hard, god he’s so _hard_. It doesn’t take long for Bond to notice though and when he does, he pulls away from Q’s mouth with a wet sound.  
  
“Let me–”  
  
And with that, Q’s trousers and pants are around his knees, Bond swallowing Q down to the hilt with a rumbling groan that goes straight to the root of Q’s aching cock.  
  
It’s quieter here than in Bond’s Chelsea flat, the air more still and every breath sounding twice as loud. The way Q is sobbing for air, he thinks he could well have been mistaken for someone trying not to drown at sea, but – _oh_ – perhaps that’s the closest comparison. Chest constricting, heart racing, blood rushing in his ears. Like the very best death anyone could wish for.  
  
Bond tongues at the underside of Q’s prick and the wet heat of it pressed so close against the sensitive skin there makes Q leak even more, Q watching wide-eyed as Bond swallows every single drop.  
  
“Wait,” he finally gasps out just as Bond starts suckling on the head. He’s going to come right there and then if this goes one, he’s sure of it. “Wait, stop, you’re going to make me–”  
  
Cruel man that he is though, Bond only stops after running his tongue one last time under the bottom of Q’s glans, Q’s hips bucking at the sudden intensity of it.  
  
“Too much?” he asks Q teasingly and even in the dark, still trying to catch his breath, Q can see the shine of spit and traces of pre-cum on Bond’s lips. It’s a good look on him, along with the sight of Bond’s still painfully hard cock. “Or too good?”  
  
“Both. It’s both, damn you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the initial breach that Q always feels the keenest, that first moment when Bond’s cock slides into him and knocks the very breath of his lungs. He’s straddling Bond tonight, one hand holding onto the headboard in a white-knuckled grip and the other pressed against the firm swell of Bond’s chest, Q easing himself down until he can feel all of Bond inside of him.  
  
“God,” he breathes. “ _Bond_.”  
  
He could come from this alone, Q thinks. The deep drag and burn as Bond’s prick fills him up so tight, the sound of Bond’s voice telling him that he’s taking it so good, taking all of Bond’s cock and milking it deep into himself. And the sounds – god, the _sounds_. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh as Bond pulls Q down towards him and thrusts up at the exact same time. The way Bond moans, so low and needy that Q can feel the vibration of it in Bond’s chest.  
  
The sound of Bond’s voice when he says, thickly: “I want to see you come on me.”  
  
He’s removed one hand from its bruising grip on Q’s hip to wrap around Q’s cock instead, touching Q with long, firm strokes. Head to shaft to root and then back up again, the insides of Q’s thighs are trembling with just how _good_ it feels. Bond has rough hands; the guns he’s held and the punches he’s thrown have left violent calluses on the pads of his palm, but even then, Q can’t help bucking into the touch.  
  
Harder, faster, _more_.  
  
There’s something so incredibly animalistic about rutting against someone else like this, about keeping this raw, jittery rhythm that has Q raising himself off Bond’s cock and pushing back down again with a gasp lodged in his throat. Eventually though, even that gets too much. When Bond drags a fingernail along Q’s frenulum, Q can only shake and clench again and again around Bond.  
  
“You’re making me come,” he can hear himself say and in reply, Bond only quickens his pace, stroking and thumbing until everything that Q can feel coalesces into the tight grasp of Bond’s hand, the length of Bond seated so deep inside of him. He’s close, he’s so close, oh god.  
  
“Look at me when you come,” Bond says in a low voice. He’s rubbing mercilessly at the underside of Q’s cockhead, the rough pad of his thumb catching just shy of the slit. “ _Q_.”  
  
And so Q does. Feels the pressure build in the pit of his belly until it uncurls all at once and he’s coming in Bond’s hand, watching Bond watch him as he spills streaks of warm come onto Bond’s chest with a moan. He’s made an awful mess, but Bond evidently doesn’t care. Just lifts his stained fingers to his lips and laps up Q’s come, the sight of it more than enough to make Q’s spent cock want to twitch.  
  
“You’re a filthy one, Bond,” Q chides half-heartedly. He’s grinding slowly on Bond’s still-hard cock, suddenly hyper-aware of how heavy, how thick it feels inside him. “Fucking filthy.”  
  
“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” comes the quick retort and Bond is starting to snap his hips up into Q again, Q folding himself over Bond so that he can thrust harder still, reach behind to spread Q’s cheeks. It’s almost primal, the way Bond is chasing his own release, but with his forehead pressed against the curve of Bond’s neck – trying, failing to catch his breath – Q knows he wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
Bond comes buried deep inside of him, hips surging up so that his balls are flush against Q’s entrance when he finally spills himself.  
  
“Q,” he’s saying close to Q’s ear. “God, fuck you’re tight, you’re so–”  
  
It’s rare for them kiss, but at times like this, it feels painfully natural for Q to just turn his head and press his lips against Bond’s. Bond yields, of course. Easy. Not just relenting, but eager even, wanting to have everything that Q can offer.  
  
There’s a brand of intimacy to this that Q doesn’t think he can name, and as he tastes himself in Bond’s mouth, can still feel Bond thrusting in small, aborted movements into him before he pulls out with a slow, wet slide, Q has to wonder if it’s better that he never knows what to call it. To know the true name of a thing is to know its nature, after all, and Q doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet.  
  
“So I’m taking this as a sign that you’re not going back to London tonight?” he asks lazily when Bond runs a tired hand along the dip and curve of Q’s back. The skin there is damp with sweat; they’ll have to get up to wash soon despite the fistful of tissues Q has cleaned them both up with.  
  
"What, are you kicking me out already?"  
  
"Not tonight, I think." Q stretches, feels the now-familiar sting of raw skin at the back of his neck as he does. "Maybe in the morning. Maybe when M sends backup to see what I've done with you."

"Which I assume means never, then."

In reality, never actually means eight AM tomorrow if Bond wants to make it back to Vauxhall in time for his briefing at ten, but for now, they can pretend otherwise.   
  
"Stay," Q says softly. He can't see it in the dark and yet somehow, he knows that Bond is smiling, can feel it in the way Bond reaches for him across that small space between them.  
  
In the morning, there'll be time to let the weight of the entire situation sink in even deeper, but for now, Q is content to just lie next to Bond. Feel Bond's hand curled comfortingly around his hip and hear the bedsprings creak with unfamiliar sounds, watch new shadows fall across the bedroom in ways that he's yet to learn. It'll be a brave new world, tomorrow.  
  
Tonight though, Q just listens to the sound of Bond breathing next to him and feels, strangely, that much closer to home.

**Author's Note:**

> Loathe as I am to post this as anything less than a complete fic, real life got in the way :( Part Two is forthcoming!


End file.
